


Persistence

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Decisions, Dubious Consent, Early Act II, Explicit Language, F/M, Foursome, Hate Sex, Hawke has a problem, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/F, Multi, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poor Life Choices, Present Tense, Purple Hawke, Qunari Fetish, Sassy and trashy, Sexual Violence, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Violence against women, m/m/m/f, request, submissive Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 06:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17802881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A slight against Marian Hawke cannot go unanswered. With a bone to pick, Hawke strolls into the compound to demand what she thinks the Qunari owe her.





	Persistence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jaden56](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaden56/gifts).



> I don't own anything relating to Dragon Age II, or the Dragon Age franchise.
> 
> Please enjoy!

* * *

 

Marian Hawke wakes as Marian Hawke usually does - with a thundering headache, the sting of subpar whiskey in her throat, and sharing a bed at the Hanged Man with the previous night's conquest. What is not common, however, is the fact that Hawke cannot remember who her previous night's conquest is.

She hesitantly reaches behind her, her hand falling on something very hard and large. A bicep, perhaps, but it is much too firm to belong a regular patron of the Hanged Man.

Oh _Maker, it better not be that templar that smells like cheese,_ she thinks with a grimace, keeping her eyes shut tight. _Again._ She can't smell cheese, but who knows how fucked her senses are if she blacked out; it takes a lot for Marian Hawke to blackout.

Her fingers gently rake over the skin. It is impossibly warm and bare, giving her nothing in regards to an identity. Perhaps she finally broke the poor sod she relentlessly flirts with each time she goes to the Gallows. Cullen, was it? She smirks at the thought, finally steeling herself for disappointment as she rolls over on the lumpy mattress.

She thinks her eyes are deceiving her for a moment. Perhaps she's still drunk. Or she's still dreaming. Maybe she took something from Isabela last night that is making her hallucinate. It wouldn't be the first time.

Hawke scrunches up her nose and narrows her eyes, staring at the horned qunari sharing the bed with her. Before she can false-logic her way to another conclusion about how they fell into a bed together, she notices the red furrows on his chest. They cut deep, deeper than Hawke usually inflicts in the heat of the moment. The blush from her favorite lip stain traces across his jaw and neck, and still more low on his abdomen, dipping beneath the ratty blanket.

"Shit," she whispers.

The qunari's eyes flash open, and his attention is instantaneous. He stares at Hawke for several moments before grunting, sliding off of the end of the rickety bed and reaching for his haphazardly discarded pants and weapon. Hawke watches him quietly, still trying to figure out if she is awake - if she'd actually managed to drag some poor horned lackey into her bed.

 _The Arishok is not going to like this,_ she thinks, trying to bite down a smirk. Maker, she needs a new hobby. Couldn't she have picked up needlework and some lovely noble? It'd certainly be less detrimental to her health than sleeping with whoever catches her fancy.

The qunari says nothing - he probably doesn't know much Common - but he does toss a small sack at her blanketed feet, the bag jingling pleasantly. Before she can ask, he is out of the door, and she is alone.

"This had better not be money," she says aloud as if he is still there and able to hear the dissatisfied, hungover annoyance in her voice. She pulls herself out from under the scratchy blanket and grabs the bag. It is a coin purse, she realizes immediately, and it is full of silvers.

"Silvers?" she says aloud, aghast. Hawke undoubtedly isn't the best lay in Thedas, of course; she isn't vain enough to think _that._ But she is absolutely better than...

Hawke upends the bag and begins counting out the money. "Twenty silvers?" she snaps to the empty room. She frowns, eyes narrowing.

What an asshole.

 

* * *

 

"Don't you dare."

"I'm not taking this measly bag of bullshit."

"Hawke, twenty silvers is twenty silvers."

"Maker's gaping dick, Varric, _silvers!_ I can't remember last night, but I _know_ my performance was worth ten sovereigns at least!"

"Ten -- Hawke, I don't doubt you're good-"

"I'm excellent."

"-even so, no one is good enough for ten sovereigns. Shit, the _Empress_ wouldn't be worth that."

"I'm going to give it back."

"Hawke."

"I'm going to march into that compound-"

"Hawke."

"-and toss this stupid bag in his horned face."

"You're going to get yourself killed, and then who would inspire all of my epic ballads?"

"Isabela?"

"She isn't nearly as fun to banter with."

"Love you too, Vee."

"...You're still going, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. I want to see his blank face when I track him down."

"Do you even know his name...rank? _Anything?"_

"...No. But I am nothing if not resourceful."

"Hawke. Don't ask the Arishok."

"Why would I ever do that?"

 

* * *

 

After six shots of whiskey, that is precisely what Hawke does.

The Arishok watches her balefully through the impending gloom of dusk. Hawke is relatively sure she made herself clear - she asked to see whichever qunari wasn't in the compound the previous night. In spite of the ease of her request, a blank stare and uninterested grunt are all she receives.

"You waste my time, human."

Hawke crosses her arms over her chest, wavering a moment. "He lost a coin purse. I just want to return it."

"We do not need your currency."

"Even so, he dropped it at my feet, and I am nothing if not honorable." That is a complete lie, but maybe her drunken Wicked Grace face was better than Varric lets on. Probably not, but maybe.

The Arishok sighs heavily and stands, his sudden height as terrifying as it is impressive. Hawke inadvertently takes a step back. The Arishok slowly descends the steps, snapping something in Qunlat to one of the straight-backed, attentive men. The qunari leaves without a word and the Arishok halts in front of Hawke, staring down at her with impossibly pale eyes. Hawke blinks, forgetting herself, somehow unprepared to see him so close.

The Arishok says nothing; he merely watches her, his thick brow furrowed. It only takes a few moments before the qunari returns with five others in tow. Three of them are silver-skinned; the other two are so bronzed they look like statues.

The second silver-skinned one is who she is looking for; Hawke can tell from the furrows on his skin, remnants of her too-long nails. She doesn't bother waiting for the Arishok to give her permission; she stalks toward the assembled men and unceremoniously tosses the coin purse at the qunari's feet.

"Next time, make it sovereigns," she snaps.

The qunari glances between her and the Arishok; the Arishok says something in Qunlat. The qunari then snorts, replying, and the Arishok grumbles, "He says you should be thankful he paid you at all. You were lackluster at best."

Hawke's eyes widen, and she forgets everything about etiquette and common sense. "Lackluster? _Lackluster?"_ she repeats. She suddenly wishes she had another coin purse to throw at him. _"Nothing_ I do is lackluster."

"You waste our time with your petty floundering. Leave."

She turns to the leader, eyes narrowing. "Where is this one's tent?" she asks, a thumb pointing vaguely over her shoulder, hopefully at her intended target. A murmur goes through those behind her, followed by sharp barks that might be laughter or indigestion. The skin on the back of her neck prickles either way. It is not a pleasant sound; every cell in Hawke's body begs her to get away from the compound as quickly as she can.

But Hawke is nothing if not persistent.

"Leave," the Arishok repeats. His patience is wearing thin.

Hawke reaches up to the straps of her daggers' sheath and hears the unmistakable sound of weapons clearing their scabbards behind her. She quickly puts her hands up, annoyed gaze never leaving the Arishok. "I'm taking them off; I'm not so dumb as to challenge you. Alone, anyway." She smirks, unable to help the next words. "I'd need an audience first."

 _"Bas_ and your narcissism," the Arishok snaps. He says something in Qunlat and the swords behind her lower.

Hawke shrugs the words off, and her hands return to the straps, untying them slowly and carefully. She is feckless, but not so feckless as to set the assembled qunari on edge again. Knowing them, she might not correct her error in time before someone got stabby.

Hawke slides her sheath off and folds the leather around the blades lovingly. She turns and hands the roll to one of the qunari. The qunari regards her blankly. "Put these somewhere and don't lose them or I will definitely somehow murder you in your sleep."

The Arishok grunts a translation, and the qunari does as asked, taking her weapons with a face so blank it infuriates Hawke. She is even more irritated that she can't remember the previous night; does any qunari ever express anything other than boredom? Had her bedpartner? She turns back to the Arishok, fingers sliding along the toggles on her left side, her leathers beginning to part. "So, who do I need to fuck around here to get what I'm owed?"

There is murmuring behind her - one of the bastards knows Common and has been pretending not to. Asshole.

The Arishok snorts, and he thunders toward her. Hawke's hands stutter on the last toggle; she is stunned, again, by how massive he is up close. "The qunari in question will be punished - that is your payment."

Hawke has somehow not anticipated that she might get the qunari in trouble. As far as she has seen from ample life experience, people are pretty happy to shift any and all blame onto Hawke alone. She purses her lips at him and finishes with the last toggle, wiggling out of the tight leather. Hawke doesn't glance behind her as she tosses it over her shoulder in the general direction of the oxman she'd already bedded.

"Leave," the Arishok booms, finally losing his temper. He reaches for Hawke's arm, but she swiftly pulls back, dancing out of his grasp. His eyes widen but only a fraction; if nothing else, she's surprised him.

Hawke bends over to unfasten and remove her greaves. She flings those back, as well - she doesn't hear them hit the ground, so she supposes someone caught them. When she stands, the movement is slow. Hawke takes a small step toward the Arishok, and the weapons behind her rise again. Hawke hesitates, eyes meeting the Arishok's before her hand reaches out to touch his chest.

The Arishok seizes her wrist before she can make contact and shouts something harsh and grating. Hawke winces, beginning to wonder if she has stepped too far; and then the Arishok is dragging her through the compound. He is faster than she anticipated, and Hawke stumbles more than a few times in her attempts to keep up with him.

There is a massive tent in the center of the compound - the Arishok's, she assumes, since he unceremoniously tosses her inside. She stumbles and sprawls across the thick, non-descript rugs on the floor, blinking up at the hulking form in the doorway. The sunlight behind him makes his features impossible to see.

"You are careless. Someday it will be your undoing."

Hawke gets to her feet, tilting her head to the side. "Probably. I'm surprised it hasn't happened yet, to be truthful."

The Arishok grunts; it is more irritated than amused, but Hawke pretends he finds her somewhat charming in that moment. She reaches up to the neck of her tunic, fingers deftly moving down the abalone buttons. Before she can shrug out of the cloth, the Arishok leaves the tent; Hawke's fingers stutter, her mouth falling open in surprise.

Instead of the Arishok, three smaller, less terrifying qunari enter. She vaguely recognizes all of them; they are usually near the Arishok's perch, standing guard with emotionless eyes. But now they are here, watching her with a different kind of intensity. "This is unexpected."

"Do you wish to leave?" one asks haltingly; the one with the red eyes knows Common. The second and third stare at Hawke with gemstone eyes and her heart stammers for a moment. She isn't sure if she's ever seen amethyst eyes; certainly not eyes the color of the sunrise, as the third one sports.

Hawke shrugs the tunic off of her shoulders, letting it pool on the rug around her feet. That seems to be enough of an answer because the first approaches her, his hands grabbing at her breastband with little warmth. Hawke swats his hand away, earning a growl, and snaps, "Don't rip my clothes or you'll owe me another sovereign. Do you know how hard it is to find cute underthings?"

Hawke begins to unwind the breastband herself, and Two comes to her side, grabbing the end of the breastband and unraveling it for her. He is surprisingly adept at it, which makes Hawke wonder how many knickers he's plundered during his time in Kirkwall. Two tosses the cloth down unceremoniously, but she doesn't have time to snip at him for it because he grabs her jaw and pulls her mouth to his. Hawke melts; his lips are shockingly full and soft, less aggressive than she expects.

One must have felt left out because he moves to her other side, teeth scraping along her throat as he places bruising, open-mouthed kisses along her jugular. Three, however, remains standing, staring, somber.

"Is your friend going to join, or is he more of a voyeur?" she asks, not sure if One's limited knowledge of Common will make any of her quips worth uttering. Three-quarters of her appeal is her wordplay, and she's beginning to realize that it's not going to help her here.

Two grabs her hair and yanks her head back, eliciting a startled chirp from her throat at the uncomfortable angle. One is focusing on pulling her pants off, still unable to be gentle with the cloth. She's reasonably sure her panties rip when he gets to those, but Two's free hand is cupping one of her breasts, squeezing. Hawke gasps, eyes opening; he's staring at her, unblinking, his hand deftly moving from one nipple to the next, sharp nails scraping across the sensitive skin.

By the time she's fully naked, Hawke's already lost track of the hands on her. There are only four - hardly a strange event for Hawke - but they are swift in staking their claims, seemingly in a battle for territory. Two has her upper half, so One moves downward, yanking her legs out and forcing her to the floor, her heart pounding.

Hawke feels something strange in the back of her throat, and her chest is tightening. She knows it's adrenaline, she's felt it more times in her life than she can count, but it's not just adrenaline. It's fear. She's scared. She can feel her fingers trembling while they scrabble across One's skull, trying to push him off and pull him down simultaneously.

Three joins the fray, but only to grab her wrists, yanking them to the side so she can't reach One anymore. Hawke can feel her heart close to exploding, and she turns her wild eyes from Two to Three. She opens her mouth and then closes it again. She thinks she might have asked them to stop, to apologize, to beg forgiveness, but bites it down. She's nothing if not steadfast.

"Well?" she says finally, embarrassed that her voice breaks but carrying on, "are we just going to pin me down, or is someone going to do something?"

Two's hand, still fisting her hair, tightens and twists. She shouts, feeling numerous strands pull free from her scalp. The fear in her chest is constricting, making it hard to breathe. But she doesn't get the chance for a panic attack; One stretches her legs out, crouching above them, sharp, rough fingers shoving between her labia, one talon finding her passage and roughly pushing inside. She hisses and gasps, trying to wiggle away from him, but he puts more pressure on her legs, keeping her still.

Two and Three switch places while she's distracted with the nail no-doubt cutting into her. Three grabs her arms again, twisting them above her head, one knee coming down to keep them steady. She's sure it hurts, but she's having trouble feeling anything past the large finger fucking her with little warmth.

 _I shouldn't have done this_ is the mantra coursing through her veins, pumping with each frantic beat of her heart. _I shouldn't have done this. I shouldn't have fucking done-_

Two's cock is shoving itself into her mouth, making her gag almost immediately. He doesn't care; the careful doting that he showed her undergarments doesn't extend to her throat. She can only take a quarter of his length comfortably, but he keeps pushing. He doesn't care; none of them do. Why did she expect them to? _Maker, I shouldn't have done this._

Hawke thinks the corners of her mouth might rip, along with her passage when One adds another finger. She tries to breathe - it's the key component to giving proper head - _keep breathing, keep calm, everything is fine -_

But not everything is fine. Two's cock is somehow thickening further as he continues his assault. He speeds up each time she gags, forcing her further and further onto the floor until she feels like she's one with the dirt.

Two lets up suddenly; Hawke doesn't have the wherewithal to be embarrassed when she coughs spit and pre-come all over herself, the thick wetness dripping down her chin and along her neck. She hasn't realized she's crying until now, hot streaks of pain coursing across her cheeks and into her hair.

One's hand leaves her, as well, and she's suddenly very empty and very cold without his fingers. Three releases her, and she slowly sits up, turning her wavering vision around the room. "What?" she tries to ask, but it comes out like a broken whine.

Three stands; his cock is hard and dripping, but he seems to have no intention of coming near her other than to flip her over onto her belly. She blinks past the wetness in her eyes, waiting. But nothing happens for a moment. Just when she is about to let out a steadying breath, One clamps her ankles and drags her as if she weighs nothing, her hands scrabbling across the rugs, getting tangled in ram's fur. "What the fuck?!" she whimpers when he tosses her legs back to the ground.

Two sits beside her, a thick thigh blocking her vision; Three lifts Hawke, positioning her above Two, and then she's impaled. She shouts, the noise petering out into a sob, her core aching. One's cock is in front of her mouth - she tries to keep her lips closed, tries to take a moment to catch some semblance of breath, but Three's hand wraps around her throat, squeezing her esophagus until she flounders for air, mouth opening of its own accord.

Two's hands grip her waist, shoving her down onto him in quick, hard jabs. He hits her cervix with every thrust, blinding pain shooting through her, making her toes curl up while she sobs around One's cock. One, at least, doesn't seem interested in making her choke - he lets Three control Hawke's head, each thrust shallow but quick.

One even gives her little breaks every time she loses enough oxygen to waiver. They don't last long, just a few seconds, but each gulp of air is one moment closer to getting out of the tent and rethinking her entire goddamn life.

Three's hand leaves Hawke's throat, and she thinks she might be in for a few seconds of quiet while they reposition. But that is not the case, she discovers, when Three and One shove her forward into Two's chest, pulling her ass back toward Three.

"No," she says, but the word is punctured by a sharp yell when Three, undeterred by biology or kindness, shoves himself into her ass. Hawke's sure she passes out because when she comes to, she is completely numb from the waist down, both holes filled and ready to tear. They both take turns stabbing into her, their movements much too choreographed for this to be their first time sharing someone.

Three's hand returns to her throat, shoving her mouth onto One's waiting cock. She gags, tries to break free and then goes limp. She knows there's no other option now; she knows she can't do anything to stop this. And didn't she ask for it?

She may have passed out again, she isn't sure, but she suddenly realizes that Three's hand isn't on her, his cock is tugging out of her, and Two's erection flops out with a wet plop. One is nowhere. Hawke isn't sure what's happening, but Two shoves her off of him, dropping her unceremoniously onto the ground. Hawke gasps, coughs, tries to joke, but only whines. She's having trouble feeling her legs; she's fairly sure she's going to die in this tent.

The three leave. Hawke sits in stunned silence for as long as she can before she crumples to the ground, dry heaving. She presses her face into the musky wool rug, something odd like a hiccup but decidedly more painful tearing from her throat.

She isn't sure how long she lays there, trying to take stock of her hurts while also remaining conscious. All she knows is that she flinches when the tent flap opens and torchlight hits her face.

"I am surprised you are awake."

Hawke winces past the light. The Arishok looms above her, but she can't see his expression. He's probably amused but hiding it behind one of those careless, emotionless oxmen scowls. "I'm surprised I'm _alive._ Wait...am I?" she rasps, taking much too long to sit up, arms shaking. "Look at that - I am."

"Go."

Hawke swallows; the action elicits another coughing fit. The Arishok continues to stand, mountain-tall and just about as kind. Finally, Hawke can force a chuckle. "I'm pretty sure they didn't want me to know they come prematurely, that's why they took off."

"I ordered them to be gentle and stop when you learned your lesson. From your glib tone, it seems they failed the last part."

"I'll say," Hawke replies while her brain begs her to let this go. "Perhaps you need to teach them how to properly destroy a human before sending them in to do your job for you."

Hawke is beginning to think she has brain damage brought on from too much drinking. Possibly from too much unprotected fucking. Definitely from too much qunari cock forcing its way down her throat. By the slight widening of the Arishok's eyes, the first sign of emotion she's ever seen on him, he thinks so, too.

"Leave."

"Not until I get the gold."

The Arishok emits a low, long growl that sends shivers down her spine. "I have no gold for you, _Bas."_

"Well then, what do you have for me?" Hawke knows what she's implying, but she isn't sure why she's suggesting it. _Brain damage,_ she reminds herself. _That's what we're going with._

The Arishok is done arguing it seems, because he begins to strip, tearing his arm guards and harness off in mere seconds. He's naked, save for his boots, in less time than it takes Hawke to unwind her breastband. She's baffled; so much so that she emits a low, appreciative noise in her throat. "I wonder why you wear something so easily removed? My lovely friend with a penchant for undressing might say it's your unexpressed urges to-"

He marches toward her, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her against the apex of his legs. She yelps, finding it hard to breathe against him, but another tug of her hair makes her open her mouth, taking his limp cock past her teeth. Hawke works it with all she can; given that her throat is still on fire, she can't offer as much as she'd like.

The Arishok lets out a soft noise that she almost misses; when she tilts her head up to see him, his head is back, eyes hidden. She sucks a little harder as he grows in her mouth, head bobbing, eyes finally closing as she focuses on her work.

He's massive. Hawke works the tip with her tongue, teeth gently grazing across the rough underside, getting sharper when he bucks into her. Her hand rises to his base, but his free hand slaps it away. "Laziness," is all he says.

Touche, she would have said could she, but she instead puts her hand on his hip to steady herself, pushing past the pain to take him in a little further, a little faster. The grip in her hair tightens, and the muffled shout around his erection makes him thrust, groaning.

The motions become more natural as she lets herself relax into them. This was more what she was accustomed to, minus the fact that the person she is pleasuring happens to be the leader of an invasive race. Minus the fact that he's the one person who has terrified her to her very core.

The hand on his hip slowly slides down the thick bone, brushes the muscles of his upper thigh, and squeezes his balls. Hawke does it a little harder than she usually would, but the noise he makes assures her that he doesn't mind. She lets her nails bite in a little, delighting in the growl he emits before her hand slides further back. Her fingertip barely grazes between his cheeks when he pushes her backward, cock popping free from her lips.

One of his hands strikes her face. The hit momentarily blinds her, her ears ringing. She can't find the words to yell at him, to demand why the fuck he thinks he can hit her, but her core flames up, heart stammering. She looks up at him, at the fury on his face, and murmurs, "That's the spirit."

The Arishok grabs her by the throat and tosses her to the ground. Her head smacks against the rug, sending more lights shooting behind her eyelids. She winces through the pain, stunned, and barely notices when the Arishok lowers himself to his knees. "Turn around," he orders, his hand slowly running over his length.

"I kind of like this view, actually."

He grabs her ankle, pitching her over and pulling her back. She scrambles to her knees, trying to keep him from yanking her leg out of its socket, and his hand smacks her ass with enough force to knock her back to the ground. "Get up."

"Fuck," she pants under her breath. She slowly pushes herself up, finally beginning to question herself again, but the Arishok doesn't give her time for too much contemplation. He shoves into her, her abused passage not degraded enough to house him comfortably. She gasps and shakes, she whimpers, and she stifles her pleading - both for him to stop and keep going. She wants to moan his name - or sob it, she isn't entirely positive.

"You appreciate causing mischief," he says suddenly, pace speeding up enough to cause Hawke's heart to falter. "Do you appreciate mischief against you?" Before she can even process his words, he pulls out of her. Before she can complain, he's shoving into her ass, making her shout and writhe and nearly blackout again.

His pace is unforgiving, his girth seemingly splitting her in half from ass to belly. Hawke's fists ball into the rug, tearing up hair and dirt, breathing in the musky animal scent. Hawke has trouble keeping quiet; it isn't uncommon for her, but the noises slipping past her gritted teeth are painful, like a wounded animal. She hates it, but it seems to drive the Arishok on, making his pace quicken and his hands slam into her ass and tear at her hips.

He pulls free from her abruptly, and she stoops to the ground, unmoored. She hears him grunt and turns her head in time to watch him come - long, thick ropes - onto the rug beneath her.

When he finishes, he gets to his feet and dresses as if nothing happened. He also tosses Hawke's gear, which he evidently brought in, at her feet. "Go."

"What the fuck was that?" she demands, struggling to her own feet. She can feel her wetness, and possibly blood, traveling down her thighs but she ignores it.

"You are not worth our seed," he says simply. "Get dressed and leave."

"Why?" she continues. She knows she should shut the fuck up before the Arishok sends more in to finish the job. But there's some emotion in her chest that won't let her leave quietly.

"You waste our time. Antaam will be punished for supplying you coin for such..." he pauses, and Hawke thinks she catches something dark pass over his face. "Lackluster performance."

Hawke knows her cheeks are flushing even more than before. She opens her mouth to argue, but no words come out. They stare at one another for longer than Hawke expects, but finally she snaps, "Fine. I'm lackluster to your ridiculously high standards. So teach me."

A brow raises. Hawke feels a little better now that she's surprised him again. He steps closer, a single step, but it places him directly in front of her. "You are leaving with your life. You might not be given the same offer twice."

"Might not?" she repeats. When the Arishok doesn't answer, she clears her throat and stands up straighter. "If you're worried about wasting your time, you could always pass me off to your men." _Maker, what are you doing you fucking degenerate?_

The Arishok turns away from her, moving to the tent flap. He pauses in the doorway, as is his odd custom, and turns back to her. "My Ashaad return at the end of the week. If you wish to tempt fate again, arrive at midnight." He runs his eyes up and down her body, looking unimpressed but hesitating on her thighs. "See a healer."

He leaves. Hawke stands on her trembling legs until she is sure no one is returning, only then sinking onto the rugs in a boneless heap.

She's a fucking idiot for coming here. And she's going to be a fucking idiot all over again come the week's end.

 

* * *

 


End file.
